the black metal windmill

head in his hands
thumbs pressing his brow 
just above his nose
bridging his eyebrows
gray eyes 
slitted toward the ground
the wind blew, loud and dead
the leaves rustled, cracked and irritable
the tangled branches swayed 
like arabian dancers, hypnotic and weary
the scent of summer’s sap, dried to spice
the cold, an unpleasant bite
demanding shivers as payment
this wasn’t autumn, the leaves had long fallen
he heard it start to turn
gently
and he looked up
rested his hands 
on cold plastic arms
and watched the wheel
listened
with quiet intent
shhh…
it’s so rusted
so decayed
yet 
it still spins
in unforgiveness
the wheel 
of the black metal windmill
…..…screek…
…..…screek…
…..…screek…